


The Cold Comfort of the In-Between

by sophiahelix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, M/M, Written Pre-Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-26
Updated: 2005-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 10:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8664232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: Something in Snape stirred at that, just as it had stirred at the fraility of Lupin's naked form, the pain in his exhausted face, the resignation in his voice. Something that wanted to feel a connection, a companionship with another weary spirit, beaten down but carrying on through sheer will. He quenched it with the same passion with which he had crushed out his earlier impulse of pity. There was no space for this. It was too late.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is very old, originally written under a different pseudonym between HBP and DH and lightly edited now. I've been listening to the song I took the title from, and thought about how I missed Snape and Lupin. It's rough when both halves of your OTP end up dead!

The knock was so faint it was hardly more than a scratch, like the branches at his window in a storm. Snape was waiting, however; waiting for anything at all. His tensed muscles ached as he rose from the chair by the fire, built up high against the chilly spring night, and went to the door, his heart thumping hard. 

He opened the door a fraction of an inch, looking down to meet the expected gaze of the teenaged Malfoy, who had not yet gained his height. Instead, he was presented with a worn, floppy navy bowtie, and his glance flicked upwards to tired hazel eyes set in a weary face.

Snape's mouth was dry. It had been hours since the small glass of port he'd taken in the teachers' lounge, gritting his teeth through another one of Slughorn's long-winded tales of blatant obsequity. His lips felt numb, as if he'd been biting them, which he realized he probably had been.

"Lupin," he said, after a long moment. 

"Good evening, Severus," Lupin said, pleasantly but with a tense edge to his voice. "May I come in?"

Snape didn't open the door.

"Strange to see you at Hogwarts, Lupin," he said, in a clipped drawl that covered his still-racing nerves. "Still looking for a job? I'm afraid the position has been filled."

Lupin hesitated a moment. "I think you can assume the reason I've come."

"On the contrary, I assumed you had learnt at long last to brew your own medicines, since you've ceased relying on my poor skills," Snape said, casually. "Have you run out of stores, perhaps?"

Lupin's eyes darted sideways and his brows drew down.

"Please, Severus," he said, lowering his voice. "Let's not discuss this in the corridor." 

Snape tightened his grip on the handle for a moment, then stepped backwards with a sigh, pulling the door wide enough to admit Lupin. The man slipped through, dipping one narrow shoulder down, and crossed the room to stand before the window.

"Is the view so different from other parts of the castle?" Snape asked as he shut the door and turned to lean against it, folding his arms. "The lake is perhaps somewhat obscured. There is, however, a fine view of the gamekeeper's hut."

Lupin did not turn, or answer.

"I see pastoral views do not interest you tonight. A shame, Lupin -- the moon is rather fine. Observe how it catches the light on those remarkable pumpkins below."

He saw Lupin's shoulders jerk at that, and quirked a tight smile.

"Potions must be on your mind, then. I should inform you that I have given up the position for one more suited to my talents. It might be wise for you to seek other counsel in any little experiments you might undertake. Potions attuned to the...lunar cycles should be brewed very shortly."

Lupin turned abruptly then, his long hands clutched together. "I haven't taken the potion since I went to the wolves. Another month and I'll be dead."

He spoke quietly, but there was a harsh, desperate quality to his voice. His eyes burned in his thin face. Snape's small smile grew wider.

"Surely it can't be as bad as all that, Lupin. Your companions seem to manage quite well without magical aid."

Lupin shook his head. "My situation is unusual. Very few have been bitten as young as I and survived the night, let alone to adulthood. Fenrir -- I've been told it's a miracle my body has withstood the strain so long, given that I am not particularly robust."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "A miracle?"

He expected the other man to flinch again, but Lupin merely pressed his lips together, sighing. "Surely you realize I couldn't discuss any -- aid I'd received before."

"Naturally."

Lupin sighed again, with more force, and took up Snape's usual place in the hard chair by the fire. 

"I understand it's a difficult potion to brew, and a large request in addition to your other duties," he said, looking down at his hands. "But I _mustn't_ cause the Order any problems now. Things are too precarious. And you know I haven't a tenth of the skill required."

"No," said Snape, "but Horace Slughorn has. Or don't you trust the man Dumbledore himself found fit to replace me?"

Annoyance flicked across Lupin's face.

"Severus, can we pretend I've already indulged your ego and discussed exactly how far you surpass your old professor? I need that potion, and I need it in the next twenty-four hours. If you won't help me, I _will_ go to Horace, though I doubt he'll be successful. I suppose you'll kindly pass on my regards to the Headmaster after my death, and recall I should like Mr. Potter to receive my worldly goods."

A short, bitter laugh escaped from Snape, and he gave into it, surprised to realize he was genuinely amused. Emotions beyond fear and rage were so rare these days.

"Lupin, you are without a doubt the most dramatic, exaggerating wizard I have ever met, save for your young protege. If I understand you rightly, you are threatening to report me to Dumbledore if I refuse to brew a potion which, considering the lifelong nature of your affliction, one might have expected you to have mastered by now."

"I'm not threatening, Severus -- "

Snape waved a hand impatiently. "Of course not. You're just reciting your last will and testament for my amusement."

"No one can force you to do anything you don't want to do, Severus. Not even Dumbledore."

The words clanged in the air, sharp and sudden, touching too close to the thing he was trying to ignore. Snape couldn't breathe. He flung himself away from the door and strode to the window, pushing open the casement. He leaned out and took in huge lungfuls of cold air, gasping. _Nobody can make you do anything you don't want to do... Dumbledore..._

It was several minutes later when he was able to rest against the window frame, one hand over his face. As he regained his shaky breath, he was aware of Lupin hovering at his shoulder.

"Severus?"

He couldn't bear to hear pity from this man. 

"I'll brew your bloody potion, Lupin. Be here at moonrise tomorrow."

He felt Lupin recoil from his savage tone, and wondered once again how such a frail man could contain a monster. 

"I -- something has happened, hasn't it?"

"Has Dumbledore said anything to you?" 

"No..."

"Then if something has happened, it isn't important that you know."

There was a pause. He heard Lupin's soft breathing, and then felt a hand on his shoulder. 

"Thank you, Severus. I'll see you tomorrow evening."

Lupin squeezed his shoulder, then withdrew, leaving a ghost of warmth. A moment later the door opened and shut, sending a draft that make the fire crackle and leap.

Snape remained at the open window, letting the cold air creep into his clothes and chill his body. After a while, he could hardly feel anything at all.

*****

It was less convenient to do potions work in his chamber, but the idea of enduring another recital of petty accomplishments from Slughorn kept Snape from the dungeons. He was astonished to recall how he'd revered the man in his youth, mistaking scraping and fawning for genuine power. It had taken years to learn the cost of the power that came with integrity, and been a bitter lesson, but at this point he could see little difference between serving in heaven and serving in hell. It was the masters who played the game, no matter who their servants were.

The potion was not simple, and he was months out of practice. It was perilously near moonrise when he set the last ingredients simmering in a small cauldron, and another soft scratching knock interrupted a tricky sequence of stirring.

He did not allow himself to be disturbed, but completed the required seven strokes and then pushed his long sleeves back down, brushing particles of dried herbs to the floor. 

Lupin looked as shabby as ever, wearing the same clothes as the previous day, now somewhat more rumpled. He sank into the one chair, brushing his overlong hair back from his forehead.

"Please, sit down," Snape said, but Lupin missed the sarcasm, searching through his robes for something. 

"You weren't at dinner," Lupin said, one hand digging into his sleeve.

"No, I preferred to sit in my room and admire the sunset."

"I brought you something. If I can just -- ah." Lupin located a small vial in an inner pocket, and produced it with a foolish smile. "Dinner."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly eat all that."

Lupin's smile grew a little tighter. "It's something new they're working on at the Ministry. Portable meals. This one is a four course filet mignon, but they come in quite a large variety. Er, will come. Right now it's just this and a bangers and mash for children. Only the bangers keep coming out purple."

"I imagine there is some impossibly twee name for this...concoction?" 

Lupin shook his head. "It's in experimental use by Aurors now, though the intent is to make it widely available as soon as possible. They haven't forgotten what happened when our supply lines were cut off fifteen years ago." 

Snape remembered that summer, patrolling the lines with his hooded companions by day, bringing food in the dead of night to the other side. At the time, he had been grateful that the cruelty of the embargo had made his betrayal of the Dark Lord that much easier; now, he wondered what it had been like to crouch in the crude barracks and wait for a sullen young traitor to bring bread. 

He shook the memories away and stood up quickly. The cauldron had reached the height of a slow boil, and he reduced the flames with a wand wave. A heavy silver goblet was waiting, above which he floated the cauldron, emptying its steaming contents. There was a brilliant flash and the goblet was rimed with frost, droplets sliding down to pool on the desk. 

Lupin stood, setting the vial down above the fireplace, and reached out for the potion. He winced at feel of the icy goblet. "I don't recall it being so cold, Severus."

"A minor adjustment. I believe it will reduce some of the nausea you have complained of, though it may amplify other symptoms."

"Such as?"

"You may retain a portion of your fur for several days after the transformation. Or, I should say, a greater portion."

Lupin looked at him sharply, but his expression broke into a faint, ironic smile. "I am, as ever, at your mercy, Severus. Cheers."

He raised the goblet in salute and drank it off quickly. Grimacing, he set it back on the desk and fumbled again in his robes, producing a leather flask.

"Taking a page from Mr. Moody's book?" Snape asked, as Lupin gulped down a dark liquid. 

"Hardly," Lupin said, wiping his mouth. "Strong coffee. For all your adjustments, you never have made that potion palatable in the slightest."

"I only regret that I cannot offer you something more refined."

"Let's give this filet mignon a chance," Lupin said, retrieving it. He picked up a plate Snape had used for chopping herbs, uncorked the murky green vial and turned it upside down over the plate.

A bright drop fell out, sparkling. Lupin blinked at the sound of clattering china when a blue bowl hit the plate beneath it, cracking the plate in half. Two more drops slipped out and clear yellow broth filled the bowl, followed by a large silver soup spoon which splashed Lupin with half the soup.

"Er," said Lupin. "I didn't realize they were including the china and utensils. That's new."

He hastily turned the vial right side up before another drop could slither out, and looked around for something to mop up the broth.

Snape raised his wand and Scourgified the desk and Lupin's ratty jumper, then reached for the soup bowl, spooning up a bite. Lupin watched him with curious eyes.

"Yes?" Lupin asked.

"Saffron. With ginger. Rather elegant for wartime fare, don't you think?"

"I meant the magic. They've begun work on incorporating charms into potions. Fascinating, don't you think?"

"Somewhat insubstantial," Snape remarked, as the bowl began to go translucent in his hands. It wavered for a moment, then winked out of sight, taking the spoon but leaving the remains of the soup, which splashed onto his shoes.

"Ah, well, it's only experimental yet," Lupin said, sending another cleansing charm downwards. "They're still perfecting the charm."

"It isn't the charm that's the problem. That has held up quite adequately, as the continued existence of the soup proves. It's the stabilizing base of the initial potion which needs serious attention."

Lupin smiled. "You should owl them, Severus. Or better yet -- floo over and give them a hand. The Ministry's in an uproar with all the staff changes, and the Department of Top-Secret Development of Top-Secret Magic seems to be populated entirely by children we taught a few years ago."

"Yes, I suppose the Dark Lord would find nothing suspicious if I assisted the Ministry in developing defensive magic, Lupin," Snape snapped. 

Lupin opened his mouth, then shut it again. 

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "It seems I'm always saying the wrong thing. Please don't think I underestimate the delicacy of your position."

"'The delicacy of your position,'" Snape said, mocking. "I would to Merlin it were merely _delicate_. As it is, you cannot begin to comprehend my position."

"I think I can, perhaps more than you realize," Lupin said softly. "You forget where I've spent the past several months."

"Lurking in a filthy den with your fellow monsters? I don't think lying to a pack of fleabitten half-men compares with dissembling to the Dark Lord."

"Fenrir -- " Lupin began, then closed his mouth, pressing his lips together. 

"I've encountered him," Snape said with contempt. "A pathetic excuse for a human, but nothing more than a base, animal killer. He is hardly possessed of the Dark Lord's powers."

"You don't know him," Lupin said, passion heating his voice. "There is an -- _understanding_ \-- among the pack. To lie to one's leader is almost unthinkable."

"One's _leader_?" Snape asked acidly. "You seem to have integrated yourself remarkably well."

"What else could I do?" Lupin snapped. "I had a job to carry out. It was impossible to get close without becoming one of them. They don't look kindly on outsiders."

"I'd imagine not," Snape said. "Especially not outsiders who have been refusing the wolf."

Lupin's mouth dropped open, and Snape enjoyed the comic effect.

"Yes, of course Fenrir reported on your activities with the pack," he said with a slow smile. "I understand they...disapprove of those who deny their animal nature through artificial means. He was rather concerned at the rumor of your previous use of the Wolfsbane potion. They can smell it, you know, even months later."

Lupin's face had almost totally drained of color. He began to ask something, but Snape cut him off.

"No worries, Lupin. He believes your embrace of the true wolf to be genuine. What the Dark Lord believes, of course, is uncertain as always. But you may feel safe with your...leader."

Lupin had regained his color, which was rapidly turning to a dull, angry flush. "I won't be returning to the pack," he said in a low tone. "I failed in my mission. Fenrir is beyond redemption, and the others are entirely in his thrall. My only consolation is that I will never have to spend another day in their worthless company."

"And what about the nights?" Snape asked, watching the blood creep down Lupin's neck.

"I count it a blessing that I am spared the memory of those nights," Lupin said quietly. "I am, in fact, grateful that I wasn't allowed to keep my mind."

"Interesting," Snape said. "I wonder what happened that you can't recall."

Lupin looked at him, and there was something hard and fierce in his eyes.

"I choose to believe that you are not so ill-informed as all that, Severus. Surely your Dark Lord told you some of what Fenrir reported. If not, you perhaps are familiar with the usual literature on lycanthropy, and the behavior of werewolves in packs."

"I heard only the briefest of reports from Greyback. There were rumors, of course, but they were nasty things. You know how wizards talk."

The fierceness in Lupin was gone, and he laughed, a wry, hopeless sound. "And in the way of all rumors, I'm sure, there was a grain of truth and a mountain of lies. I believe you can guess what had to pass between Fenrir and me before I could become part of the pack. It can't be all that different to your own initiation to Voldemort's service."

Snape twisted his mouth, but didn't say anything. 

"Of course, most of it didn't even occur during the full moon. No, Severus, my times with Fenrir are the least of the memories I wish gone."

"There's always the Obliviate charm," Snape said. 

"And I know you would be more than happy to assist me with that," Lupin said, quirking an eyebrow. "Sadly, the Order needs me to retain my memories for future retrieval. Evidence, you know."

"Indeed," Snape said.

Lupin looked up, all softness gone. His stare was hard and challenging.

"I know there's something wrong, Severus," he said. "Dumbledore keeps disappearing and won't speak to anyone but Harry, the protection is tripled on the castle, and you're up here baiting me like we're in the fourth-year dueling club. I want you to tell me what's going on."

Snape met Lupin's eyes for a brief moment, then slid to the carriage clock on the desk.

"You might want to hurry down to the dungeons," he said. "The moon will be up in a matter of minutes."

Lupin sucked in a sharp breath, cursing, and whirled around, dashing through the door. His footsteps rang out in the corridor, then died away.

Snape ate the rest of the filet mignon by the fire. It was delicious. 

*****

It was nowhere near dawn when he awoke, restless wraiths and dim green fires on his mind. He threw back the bedclothes and went to the window, his bare, calloused feet scuffing against the rough carpet. The moon had swung over the castle in her orbit, and the grounds below were shrouded in darkness, twined with mists amongst the budding trees. Something moved in the lake, probably a giant tentacle, and he could see the embers of a dying fire in Hagrid's hut, throwing out tiny sparks of fierce red. 

He shivered at the bleak scene, wrapping his arms around himself. Ten years he'd lived in this room, and he'd taken little pleasure in his view, or in his work, for that matter. Hogwarts was a place of safety, a home begrudged by virtue of the fact that it accepted him. Ten years of thankless toil, of smiling when he felt like snarling, of being forever _grateful_. No man could bear it, let alone one with a scrap of wounded, leftover pride.

And where had that pride gotten him? In the early years, he'd gritted his teeth and told himself that pride would be the foundations of his sanity, that the only way he could endure a cage was not to act the part of the cringing dog. If he would never be liked, he could at least become respected for standing on his own and taking no more charity than absolutely necessary. 

And now? Who looked at Severus Snape and admired his competence and self-sufficiency? Only a handful of frightened children -- and, Snape thought with disgust, he was a poor excuse for a wizard and a man if he could not manage to instill fear in chidren whose lives he controlled. A petty tyrant, indeed. 

Ten years of choking on cold, stiff pride, then, and still he looked out his window with infinite and unexpected regret for a view he might never see again. The time would come soon, he knew; Malfoy walked around with mingled triumph and terror, and he must have puzzled out the cabinet's secret at last. That terror was what he would have to play on, not the fledging Malfoy pride, or the boy's own remnants of common sense. Terror would drive Draco to the edge, and that same terror would stop him before he went too far. And then it would fall to Snape to cross that line. 

They would come, by night, with fire. The plan was old and long chewed-over. A delicious morsel for the Dark Lord, a whetting of his appetite before the long, rich feast that lay before him. Voldemort fed on pain and sorrow, and if he could have looked inside Snape's heart that night he would have found a worthy meal. 

A high, sharp howl shivered in the air and Snape pulled the curtains across the window with a jerk, turning from the darkness to kindle the candles on his workbench. He could put this from him for one night longer, at least.

When the sun crept into his room hours later, Snape was pouring a thick, viscous liquid into the empty flask Lupin had forgotten. He sniffed it experimentally, then screwed on the cap, tucking it carefully into the pocket of his robe. He shut the door to his room behind him, charming it with several spells, and went down the hall to the dungeon stair.

The ancient gate at the far end of the dungeon creaked with an ear-splitting squeal when he pushed it open. Leave it to Lupin to barricade himself in the smallest and least-comfortable of the cells, without even so much as a window or chair. Down the long row Snape went, passing enclosures full of rusted chain and unidentifiable offal, remants of a darker time, until he reached the far cell. A set of neatly-folded robes and threadbare clothes were piled outside, and Lupin was curled up in a corner, his back to Snape.

Even the hideous shriek of the gate hadn't awoken him from his exhausted sleep. His hair was wild, and from this angle Snape could count every knobby lump of his spine, visually trace every red weal and pale scar on the man's thin body. He looked hard-worked and ill-used, as much from the previous night as from many nights before. Snape winced to see old marks of claws in sensitive places, wondering with a curl of his lip whether they had been self-inflicted or...otherwise.

He realized he had no way of unlocking the door, and bent to look through Lupin's clothes for the key. A brief search turned up only a few paltry personal possessions and Lupin's wand, so he withdrew his own and pointed it at the lock.

"Alohomora," he said, and the lock gave off yellow sparks, sizzling and snapping. Recoiling, he was about to try the charm again when Lupin put his head up, his hazel eyes more tired than ever.

"It's charmed, Severus," he yawned. "Toss me my wand, won't you?"

Snape bent with a frown and picked up the wand, handing it through the iron bars. Lupin rolled over, reaching out a hand, and Snape's face grew hot as the extent of Lupin's nudity was revealed. He was thin everywhere, with long ropey muscles in his thighs, the claw-scarring extending over his abdomen and down. Snape looked away quickly, but not before he caught sight of a thick thatch of dark hair and a heavy cock hanging beneath. He heard Lupin's chuff of laughter, weary as always.

"Best hand me some clothes too," Lupin said, taking the wand. "It's cold enough down here to freeze the balls off a...well. It's cold."

Snape quickly gathered the pile of Lupin's clothes and shoved them through the bars too, still averting his eyes. It occurred to him that he couldn't recall the last time he'd seen another man naked. He'd been spared some of the more intimate indignities of being the Dark Lord's servant, of late.

"All decent," Lupin said a few moments later, and Snape left off his study of the medieval stonework in the drainage spouts. The other man was standing somewhat unsteadily, his wand aimed at the lock. He muttered something Snape didn't quite catch, and the lock sparked again as the door swung open. 

Lupin clutched at the door frame, stumbling forward on his unlaced boots. Snape felt an unexpected urge to break his fall, but quelled it fiercely. Enough that he was down here at the crack of dawn in the first place. 

"I hardly see the point of all these precautions," Snape said coldly. "The potion should have kept your human mind perfectly intact."

Lupin turned to look at him, still clutching the iron post. His face was drawn and pale. "It did. But I couldn't be certain."

"Have you always spelled yourself into a cage? I don't seem to recall you doing so before."

"Not when I didn't know what I was capable of."

Something in Snape stirred at that, just as it had stirred at the fraility of Lupin's naked form, the pain in his exhausted face, the resignation in his voice. Something that wanted to feel a connection, a companionship with another weary spirit, beaten down but carrying on through sheer will. He quenched it with the same passion with which he had crushed out his earlier impulse of pity. There was no _space_ for this. It was too late.

Snape exhaled, sharply. "Lace your boots, Lupin. I've brought breakfast."

As Lupin bent down slowly, Snape retrieved the flask, still warm to the touch, and unscrewed the top. He waited for Lupin to finish, and was about to snap out something impatient when Lupin lost his balance and wobbled, falling backwards onto the cold stone floor. 

He caught himself on his elbows, knees drawn up, and winced aloud. Snape rolled his eyes and crouched down, thrusting the flask at Lupin. 

"You need to eat," he said brusquely. "Pour out a few drops of that. On the _ground_ , Lupin," he snapped, when the other man tipped the flask towards his mouth. 

Then he began to lace Lupin's boots. 

Lupin smiled weakly, and carefully poured out first a padded mat, then a sturdy earthenware bowl, and finally a thick porridge, studded with currants. An earthware mug followed, filled with rich black tea, and at last a heavy-handled spoon. 

"No cream and sugar?" he asked wryly.

"What are you, twelve?" Snape asked, and tugged briskly at Lupin's laces. 

"It feels like it, with you doing up my boots."

Snape didn't look up, but his cheeks flooded with heat. He laced tighter, faster, trying to be done. "Eat," he said.

"Can't, just yet," Lupin said, weakly. "Rather hard to sit up at the moment."

"Do your own damn boots, then," Snape growled, stopping.

"Why, when you're doing such an excellent job?"

Snape looked up in time to see a sudden, naked tenderness in Lupin's eyes. It made him catch his breath, like two nights ago, and brought that same urge -- to turn away, into the cold. 

"I've never been able to cut circulation off in my toes quite so well as you have," Lupin said, lightly, but Snape heard something else in his voice.

"Sleep naked in a cold dungeon again and frostbite will solve that problem," Snape muttered, but he laced up the second boot a little looser. 

His feet free, Lupin tucked them up underneath him and leaned against the wall, reaching for the bowl of porridge. "Funny way to end a filet mignon dinner," he remarked, spooning up a bite. "Although delicious."

"This isn't the potion you brought," Snape said, sitting back on his heels. "And don't talk with your mouth full."

Lupin swallowed, surprise on his face. "This -- Severus, you didn't make this, did you?"

Snape didn't say anything.

Lupin examined the bowl in his hands, turning it round. "But this is wonderful! The stronger bowl -- the mat -- how clever of you to find a way to keep it from breaking. The food isn't half-bad either."

"I didn't make the food."

"Oh -- of course not, the elves. But how did you keep it from vanishing? The other one didn't last half so long."

"I told you. The potion base was unstable. I corrected the imbalance."

Lupin gave him a searching look, and Snape found himself suddenly, irrationally irritated. He got to his feet, abruptly.

"I can't be bothered to give you a detailed explanation of the mechanics involved. You simply haven't got the alchemical background. Suffice to say that the bloody potion works now, and you can take that back to your precious Ministry and let them gloat over it."

"Severus -- "

"Tell them you made the changes, I don't care. Just don't -- _badger_ me over it."

"Severus," Lupin said again. Snape heaved a sigh and closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them, Lupin had set down the bowl and was struggling to his feet. "I just wanted to say thank you."

Snape shook his head violently. "It was nothing more than an amusement. I couldn't sleep and wanted a distraction."

"Why couldn't you sleep?"

This he could not bear. Remus Lupin, pale and weak, a comforting hand on his arm, looking at him with soft concern in his eyes like the most noble Gryffindor who ever fancied himself a martyr and a hero.

"Your bloody howls, Lupin," he said coldly, lying. "Next moon, I suggest you charm your mouth shut."

He was cruelly gratified to see the hurt in Lupin's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Severus. I'll take care next month not to disturb you -- "

" _Don't_ ," Snape said. "Neither of us will be here next month."

"Why not?" Lupin asked, suddenly blazing. "Where will you be?"

"I'll be -- away," Snape snapped, trying to think. 

"Where? What are you going to do?" Remus's hand dug into his arm, and he leaned close. 

"Remus," Snape gasped. " _Don't ask me_."

He was so near, and there was something in his eyes that was fierce and familiar, and Snape couldn't catch his breath again. 

"Severus..." Remus's voice sounded as wretched as Snape felt. 

He never knew who moved first, but their mouths were pressed together, warm and hard, and there was no air between them, just a long, desperate kiss. In a moment he had Remus against the back wall of the cell, his hands braced on cold stone, Remus's hands tangled in his robes to pull him closer. Remus's lips were chapped but full, his tongue sliding into Snape's mouth, and there was a pounding like a thousand drumbeats somewhere in his chest. He felt Remus gasping for breath, felt himself grow hard against Remus's moving hips, felt something that was like falling and flying at once.

And then he pulled back, the cold air a shock to his skin, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared at Remus for a long moment, frozen open-mouthed and wonderfully tousled against the stone wall, then turned away, knocking over the bowl of porridge as he went.

As he fled up the stairs, part of him expected Remus to follow. Another part of him _wished_ Remus would follow, and he hated himself for being so weak. 

*****

He paced his room for a solid hour, like the beast which had been unleashed in the cells not so long ago. He didn't know whether the beast had been Remus, or himself.

It was Saturday, and the brats had all tumbled out of the castle for a little holiday-making on the grounds, denied their pleasures in Hogsmeade. He knew how they would be, rising sap in their veins, cramped limbs stretching free, acting like savages in the frail Scottish spring. He could hear their childish voices, the screaming and the laughter, the brave ones beginning to put toes in the snowmelt of the lake, the more intelligent ones lying about on sun-warmed hillocks and stones, books put away and arms entwined.

And he was up here, wrapped in black, chilled despite the fire in the hearth, endlessly shut out. As a child by character, then by circumstance, and now by choice. _Was_ it his choice? Could any man be said to make his choices, after the first and most important one was made?

The betrayal. He no longer knew whom he had betrayed, or when. He suspected it was only himself.

The door banged open behind him, and against his will he jumped, flinching. It was not truly unexpected, however. He turned slowly, to face the anger and hatred he deserved.

Remus was angry; that was undeniable. He was wearing the same clothes, haphazardly fastened, and his hair still stood up in wild tufts. But the weariness had retreated some, even if he was still pale. Pale with rage, Snape thought.

"I had to catch my breath," Remus said, his voice low. "Get my strength back. Eat some breakfast."

Snape didn't say anything.

"I thought I would come up here and say something kind. Something about how war takes a toll on all of us, and weall have our secrets and our burdens. Then I began to climb the stairs."

Remus paused, licking his lips.

"And then I became _furious_."

Snape opened his mouth to say something, to forestall, but Remus went on.

"I thought about all the terrible things that have happened. James and Lily, and Sirius wrongfully imprisoned. Harry growing up amongst those cruel people. Losing Sirius again, the only friend I had left. Going to the wolves. All these things, growing out of a terrible, stupid war, and the part you've played in it. The part you continue to play, no matter what Albus says."

There was nothing to say. Snape thought he should snap out an angry reply, strike the man, stride out of the room. But he felt helpless and empty. This was only part of the truth, unvarnished and ugly. But it was still truth.

Remus had gone utterly white now, his eyes intense and unreadable. 

"And I became furious with myself," he said hoarsely. " _Because I still want you_."

Snape caught his breath. Remus was crossing the room, eyes fixed on him, and Snape couldn't move. Remus was there, reaching out, and he knew he should step away, stop this before it started. But it was too late.

"You bastard," Remus choked out, and kissed him.

It was hard and bruising, Remus's hands digging into his shoulders. Snape stood stock-still for a moment, unable to resist or respond, and Remus took the advantage to shove him backwards, hands on his chest, moving toward the unmade bed beneath the window. 

Snape came awake as he fell, grasping at Remus as he hit the narrow mattress, and they began in earnest. Remus landed atop him, one knee shoving between his thighs, and Snape reached up to hold Remus's face, sliding his hands into the unruly brown hair and pulling him down harshly. Remus's kiss was brutal, animal, his tongue hot against Snape's and his teeth everywhere -- lips, jaw, neck. 

"No one left," Remus growled into his throat. "No one left but _you_." 

"Shut up," Snape hissed, finding his voice at last. 

Remus was straddling Snape's thigh now, thrusting against him in time with his hot, wet kisses. His hard cock dug in painfully, his hip grinding into Snape's own erection. Snape slid his hand down to Remus's neck, holding tight, and prepared to roll them over. 

Remus seemed to sense it, and broke away from the kiss, turning his face so that his stubble scraped across Snape's cheek. 

"No," he whispered into Snape's ear, then licked it.

Remus moved lightning fast, and then he was between Snape's legs, spreading them wide with his knees. Snape felt his robes ride up, exposing his bare legs, and groaned, trying to sit up.

"Lie down," Remus said, and shoved Snape flat with one hand, while the other fumbled at his own flies.

"You're not going to _fuck_ me, Lupin," Snape gasped, winded. 

"Watch me, Sev- " Remus broke off as Snape grabbed his shirtfront and hauled him down, scissoring tight with his legs. 

"You're not going to fuck me," Snape muttered against Remus's lips, and kissed him again.

This time the kiss was softer, deeper, as Snape forced his tongue into Remus's willing mouth. They began to rock together, hips grinding. After a moment Snape chanced letting go with one hand and hauled the cloth of his robes all the way up. Remus shifted, and Snape reached into Remus's undone trousers to pull out his cock, hot and throbbing in his hand. 

Remus broke off the kiss and buried his face against Snape's neck, groaning. His breath was hot and moist, and Snape shivered as Remus's teeth grazed his skin. 

They found soon found a rhythm, Remus's hips thrusting down, smoothly at first and then rough as the pace built, their slick cocks rubbing together. Snape let go of Remus's shirt and reached around to slide his hands into his trousers, pulling Remus's firm arse against him sharply. Remus braced his hands on the bed on other side of Snape's shoulders, grasping the sheets for purchase. 

Remus began to groan more intensely, louder, a series of grunts and curses as he snapped his hips downward, faster, harder. Snape dug his fingers into Remus's arse, arching up. Remus turned his head, claiming Snape's mouth again with a new, desperate fierceness that drove them both on.

"Only us," Remus gasped between kisses. "Only two who know -- _fuck_ , Severus, tell me -- "

"Don't," Snape begged, biting Remus's throat as Remus threw his head back. "Don't -- _don't_ \-- "

Remus let out a strangled cry, thrusting brutally hard, and then his hot come was shooting everywhere, onto Snape's stomach and down his thighs. Snape pulled Remus hard against him and came, moaning into Remus's neck as the world went black and red. 

When he struggled back a minute later, Remus lay dazed and half-conscious across him, his breath shallow. A faint stab of guilt and fear went through Snape, as he remembered Remus's weakness just a few hours ago. Snape raised up on one elbow, expecting Remus to rouse at the movement, but he lay still.

Snape stared at the man resting on his chest, hair wilder than ever. The lines around his eyes had softened a little, but his face was still weary, exhausted. How was it that Snape despised such weakness, yet in Remus it called up not only a despicable pity, but a more frightening sort of understanding, almost a kinship?

There was something good in Remus, he realized. Something small and pure, a reason to keep going. Pride was what held Snape together -- pride and rage, and they had devoured him almost completely. But in Remus the spark was something different, quieter, and yet it gave one strength to go on, like a warming draught on a cold night, when all seemed dark. Remus believed that something good could still come for him, or the ones he loved, and that was enough. 

Snape lifted his hand, moving it to stroke Remus's tousled, shaggy head, hating himself as he did so but unable to resist. A moment of rest, one touch, and Remus would never know. Just to come near that peaceful faith was all he needed. 

His hand was hovering just centimeters away when Remus opened his eyes and smiled. 

"Never fancied you for a cuddler, Severus," he whispered. "Does this mean you want to tell me what's going on?"

There was an instant, a breath, in which he could imagine telling Remus. The bleak arguments with Albus, the weight of the terrible knowledge. Malfoy's insufferable, youthful confidence, mingled with a child's fear. The confession would be wrenched from him, black words spilling out, and the burden would be lessened.

And anything he had ever been drawn to in Remus would be corrupted by that burden, destroyed by the realization that there could be no happiness in ending this. Only pain, and sacrifice, and long years of grief and guilt for those who were left when it was over. Snape did not intend to be one of them.

"No," he said, at last. "I can't. There is nothing to tell."

Remus looked for a moment as if he might protest, if only against this contradictory response, but the moment passed.

"I see," he said. 

Snape lay on his bed when Remus had gone, stickiness drying on his thighs as he looked at the shut door. He fancied there might have been a look in Remus's eyes as he left, awkwardly straightening his clothing, a longing or a suspicion or just that most despicable emotion, pity. Snape had closed his eyes and not opened them until the door closed behind his last chance, his very last chance. 

And now the waiting began again.


End file.
